The Sound of His Horn
by Sat-Isis
Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett hunts a werewolf.
1. Chapter 1

Cutler Beckett has believed in the occult since that night in childhood where a ghost had hovered at the edge of his bed. Unafraid, the young master watched the beautiful woman until the apparition faded in the morning. When Cutler had mentioned this woman to his nurse the next morning, he was told not to be stupid and that there was no woman in the house who matched that description. Eventually, the encounter was forgotten and was no remembered until some years later when a footman saw the ghost. After screaming his head off and pissing himself, the man had packed and left without so much as a letter of recommendation. Cutler Beckett had then become fascinated with all arcane knowledge devoted to the preternatural…

And that was how he found himself in Yorkshire, at The Slaughtered Lamb, hot on the trail of real British werewolf.

* * *

><p>When Lord Beckett had entered the pub some months earlier, he had brushed past a man on his way out. On his way to a Country Soiree, Cutler had taken care to dress in as much silver as possible: silver-tipped cane, silver embroidered waistcoat and frock, silver buckled shoes, etc. He was fairly dripping with it and the man had jumped back from him as though burned. An unusual reaction to be sure, but perhaps the stranger had enough sense to realize that Beckett was a Lord and was deferring. But the man has neither bowed nor apologized, and simply walked quickly out of the pub and disappeared down the street.<p>

Typical of those who did not know how to act among their betters and Beckett had not given it anymore thought. With the better part of the day to waste while the carriage was fixed, Cutler had entered to inquire about vittles in the meantime. A crusty barmaid informed him that no food was served at The Slaughtered Lamb – "Not even Slaughtered Lamb! Aha-ha!"

Beckett walked out with a raised brow and ambled back to the carriage to check on the progress of repairs. While he was not eavesdropping, Cutler had far too much class; he did overhear snatches of conversations between his driver and the locals. The general consensus was though 'twas moonlighting stay 'way from the moors, but 'twasn't highwaymen ye need te be on watch for. _Curious, most curious. _

In short time the repairs were completed and Lord Beckett arrived fashionably late.

* * *

><p>That night as the moon rode high and white in the dark sky; Cutler Beckett left the mansion of Lord and Lady Burley much later than anticipated. Dozing, Beckett noticed the carriage slowing down and the shouts of his coachman. The horses whinnied shrilly and impatiently stamped their feet. Cutler tapped his cane on the roof and the driver appeared at the door.<p>

"Have we lost one of the footmen again?"

"No, milord, there is a carriage overturned on the side of the road."

"Oh, dear me. Well, this certainly merits investigation."

The coachman stepped back and the footmen readied the carriage for Lord Beckett's exit. It looked as though something had attacked the team, the horses had been disemboweled and Cutler winced at the sight. He held a silver embroidered handkerchief to his nose, thinking of his own equines. There was no noise from the carriage. The driver and footman righted the carriage and three distinctive thunks where heard.

"Let us hope they have just fainted and not snapped their necks…oh dear, is that..?"

Blood was leaking copiously from underneath the coach door.

"None of this is right, milord! Where's the footmen and driver?"

"It seems the locals were correct. This is not the work of a highwayman, but a lunatic. Open the door."

The coachman's hand trembled as he raised it towards the latch. Beckett unsheathed the hidden blade from his cane and the coachman lifted the door latch.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The horses screamed and bolted away with the carriage as a dark shaped launched itself from inside the righted carriage. The door flung open and Beckett's driver was thrown back. The shape, nothing human, slammed into the nearest footman, toppling him to the ground. At the warm splash of jugular blood spraying on his face, the other footman screamed liked a child.

Cutler Beckett watched, entranced at the creature decapitating his footman with its jaws. Neither human nor beast, he could see clearly in the moonlight, but something both. Could it be? A real werewolf?

Before he realized what he was doing, Beckett had stepped forward and had thrust his blade into the shoulder of the beast. The creature reared up with a roar, pink foam splashing from its muzzle and glowing eyes boarding right into Cutler's. Slinking back, the werewolf tried to dislodge Beckett's blade. Advancing again, the creature kept retreating and whimpering.

Now that he knew what it was; Lord Beckett had no reason to fear. It was not the pain of the blade that kept the beast at bay, but the silver Beckett wore and the silver embellished hilt of his blade. Cutler felt magnificent, to face such a foe and have it cover from him made him feel invincible. Blood pumping through his veins, Beckett was hard and grinning like a berserker.

There was yet some human rational behind those beastly eyes and the werewolf tore himself away from Beckett's blade and fled across the moors, howling to the bone white moon.

Panting, Cutler trembled with the after effects of battle. Beckett had seen those eyes before! He wanted that power of the wolf in the palm of his hand – his and his alone to control and unleash. Dear God, how he wanted it!

* * *

><p>In the wee hours of the morning, Lord Beckett brought his sad tidings to The Slaughtered Lamb and the constable was called. Cutler's remaining footman was put to bed and his coachman remained with the horses. Both had given their statements to the constable's man, afterwards Beckett had drifted back upstairs to his footman.<p>

Crawling into bed with the tender youth of ten and six, Cutler pressed himself on his servant, still aching from his encounter with the werewolf. The traumatized young man gave himself up eagerly to his Lord's touch and lost his virginity.

When day broke, Cutler questioned the locals thoroughly and discovered all that he could. It seems werewolves had been a feature of this place for as long as anyone could remember and that the locals simply avoided the problem by staying indoors during the night of the full moon. Lord Beckett inquired everyone until there was no more knowledge on the subject. Expressing his sympathy sincerely to the locals; Cutler assured them that if anything could be done, he would put a stop to it.

* * *

><p>Upon returning to his townhouse in London, Lord Beckett diligently researched every scrap available on werewolves in the five languages he spoke and read fluently. Within a fortnight he had finalized his plans for capturing the werewolf and Cutler spent the next two months preparing his hunt.<p>

Wolfhounds were imported from Ireland to add to his pack of hounds. Silver embellished ensembles were commissioned for his hunting party; not just for the men, but the animals as well. Custom pieces such as silver shackles and collars were ordered; a silver-plated cage with pikes and daggers. The only items already in Lord Beckett's collection were the pure silver hair ornaments he had collected on his travels to the Far East.

* * *

><p>Once all the preparations were completed, Lord Beckett's hand picked hunting part set out for Yorkshire. Across the carriage from Cutler was a nubile courtesan. Her hair was died red with henna and she dressed impeccably in Robin's Egg Blue.<p>

While women were not usually to his taste, this woman knew her business and had thus far managed to keep him entertained. This courtesan went by the name of Léonore; she was hardly French.

Arriving at The Slaughtered Lamb, Lord Beckett treated his party to one round on him. Tomorrow night was the full moon and tonight he would sit back and watch the men of this place; looking for his wolf. Léonore wallowed in better accommodations across town and would be joined by Cutler come morning.

In the desperate hours of night, between one and four, a fierce game of darts was taking place. There was one man consistently winning. Beckett took notice of him. Taller than Cutler, he was of a middling height. The man had dark, straight hair pulled back in a simple queue. His clothing was simple, but well made and of earthly colors. There was something about the way the man moved; silently and very much like a predator. His permission was astounding and each dart hit the boar-bristled target exactly were he wanted it. Suddenly the man turned about, as though he felt eyes on him.

From the corner of his eye, Cutler continued to watch the man. Oh yes, he remembered those eyes. Lord Beckett knew the next night would not end in disappointment. Meanwhile, Léonore waited.


	2. Chapter 2

"You look magnificent, my dear."

Léonore batted her lashes coquettishly at Cutler's compliment. Everything was coming together splendidly; both the courtesan and the moon were at the peak of their monthly cycles. Lord Beckett called to mind the eighteenth card of the Major Arcana, the source of his inspiration for this evening's hunt.

Cutler Beckett had come across a rare deck once and certain cards were completely unconventional. Under the weeping moon a woman in blue and white cradled the howling wolf in her arms by the shore. It was highly unusual, and yet evocative of some lost knowledge.

Tonight Léonore was dressed in silver and it would glow blue and white under the moonbeams on the moors. While her hair was already expertly coiffed, it was Lord Beckett who arrayed the silver hair pins and sticks.

"There, my dear. You look like an ancient priestess."

The courtesan turned his head this way and that, admiring the sparkling of the silver and the swish of bangles on certain sticks. He waited for her to stand and then, placing Léonore's hand in the crook of his arm, he escorted her down the stairs.

"I trust you removed the sponge?"

"Yes, of course. Here."

"Thank you. Remember, my dear, do not run, do not faint, and do not lose one bit of silver – it is your only defense."

"Yes, yes, we have been over this before."

"I will not tolerate mistakes."

"Of course not."

The sun was setting and the dying light was a brilliant orange. Already the moon hung low and swollen over the landscape. The air was pregnant with anticipation as the dog snuffled about, the horses chomped their bits, and the huntsmen grinned.

Cutler helped settle Léonore atop his own tawny gelding and proffered the bloodied sponge wrapped in a handkerchief to the hounds. The wolfhounds knew their prey by instinct and needed no prompting. The scent of blood would help them keep track of Léonore.

Swinging up into the saddle before the courtesan, Beckett had his mount trot out of town and up a bit into the moors. He had Léonore link her arms around his waist to keep her steady. At the starting point, he helped her slide off the horse. "You know the path to take. Remember your instructions."

She smiled at him; in his mind Cutler knew that she did not believe in the reality of this venture and that Léonore was only humoring him for the payment she would receive. He could only hope that she would not deviate from the plan and set him back a month.

Léonore began walking towards the river. Beckett galloped back to his party in the descending twilight. The palms of his hands itched. The huntsman approached him.

"Shall we begin now, milord?"

"No, not yet. We must wait. When the time is right our quarry shall alert us.

A breeze had picked up and Beckett spared a glance to the sky. It was his good fortune that there were no clouds. The last thing Cutler needed was to be bumbling around in the dark moorland during a werewolf hunt.

A horse suddenly reared up with a whinny and sent a quiver of tension throughout the hunting party; the wolfhounds abruptly attentive.

"Steady."

And then echoing from a great distance came the howl of the wolf. An eerie sound, immediately recognizable, but still troubling as the last wolf in England had been killed centuries ago.

"Huntsman, sound the horn and unleash the hounds."


End file.
